


What Schlatt Remembers

by MKYouth



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: "What I Remember", Light Angst, Melancholy, maybe...?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:48:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27735610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MKYouth/pseuds/MKYouth
Summary: “I’m writing a book; for us undead, a little memoir of our memories!” He flashes an even brighter smile to Schlatt, “I don’t quite know you, but we gotta band together somehow right?”---What Schlatt Remembers, the conversation it took to write the book.
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & Jschlatt, Jschlatt & Wilbur Soot
Comments: 2
Kudos: 162





	What Schlatt Remembers

**Author's Note:**

> pure self indulgence BAYYBAYY

“What do you remember?”

Wilbur stands at the entrance of the community house, leaning against the doorframe; he holds a book and quill, a friendly smile across his face. The ghost of a slash hovers in the image of his sweater, red contrasting against the faded yellow and grayed skin he lives (or unlives?) with.

“I’m writing a book; for us undead, a little memoir of our memories!” He flashes an even brighter smile to Schlatt, “I don’t quite know you, but we gotta band together somehow right?”

Schlatt looks at him with glazed eyes, fuzzy memories dancing around in the back of his head. Flashes of yellow, similar to the one Wilbur adornes now bring themself to the forefront of his mind. Waves crashing over him revive themselves as a sensation on his ghostly body, the heat of a lava bucket; and the booms of TNT exploding all live in that color of yellow. 

“What's it to you?” Schlatt crosses his arms, covering the faint mark of a broken heart he doesn’t quite like, “You gonna sell this and make some sort of fucking money off me?”

Wilbur shakes his head, his brows slightly furrowing, “Ah no no, I’m not going to sell anything. It’s just for my library, free of charge to visit or give to; I can promise you that.”

“You got a contract to say that?”

“Will a handshake count?”

“Deal,” Schlatt extends his hand, Wilbur tucks the book under his arm and extends his own. Meeting in the middle, a distant memory sparks between the two; a handshake at a podium, the jokes of a ram, and the fear at the end of a world. 

Schlatt reels, rubbing his hand against his blue sweater.

“What do I remember?” He coughs, scratching at the side of his head, “Ugh; you’re asking a lot there, lover boy.”

“It doesn’t have to be  _ detailed _ , friend, I barely remember the name of my son!” He laughs, dry, falling to a small sigh, “That’s somewhat of a joke.”

Schlatt scoffs, “Alright let me think…”

He remembers…

“I remember… an SMP.”

“Well we are on one,” Wilbur spins on his heel, arms showcasing the community house.

“I remember a  _ live  _ SMP.”

Wilbur's smile wavers, “Live?”

“I remember… I remember a shed. I remember shoving cucks in and laughing.” Schlatt smirks, the memories of tricking people to fall in the water trap flashing in his mind. 

“Oh! How fun!” Wilbur nods his head, looking down to his paper and writing it down.

“I remember a coin, I remember scamming people out of their shit.” 

He rubs his fingers together, the feeling of smooth gold, the carved shape of an S manifesting in the space between his hands. He remembers a boy accompanying him; he remembers… he thinks he’s here.

“I remember golden apples,” He chuckles, low and dark, “I remember playing god a few times.”

“You must be fun, I’m surprised I don’t recognize you.” Wilbur chews at the quill while he writes, unkempt hair poking out from beneath his red beanie. Schlatt bites the inside of his cheek, the faintest memories of a man he’s sure he once knew threatening to show themselves at full. 

“I’m fun, it’s a wonder,” He rolls his eyes, “I remember Big Q, I remember Karl… heh, I remember a stripper pole.”

He pauses, backtracking.

“I remember Quackity, I remember Quackity helping me.”

“Any more?”

“I’m getting there, Jesus Christ,” Schlatt taps his nose...

  
He looks at Wilbur. Water, lava, TNT, music, jokes, shitty games… negative memories prod at his mind, banning, arguments, flooding trapping and kicking out, heartbreak—revenge. He remembers things he wishes—he had forgotten; he remembers little jokes and big ones, bits and gags that they’d kept going on for hours and hours on end. He remembers the sick and twisted one they’d played for months, recently. He remembers the taste of alcohol oh his tongue, he remembers TNT again, he remembers a fall of insanity. This time it wasn’t his own. He remembers… 

“I uh, I remember a musician. A fucking e-boy, who’d make me play challenge games with him.”

“Sounds annoying,” Wilbur jots it down; Schlatt laughs at the irony, “Anything else Mr…”

He remembers a caravan, the picture he’d been sent of a once beautifully standing nation. He remembers an election, he remembers the one thing he’d kept intact… a caravan standing broken in the middle of a nation. He remembers Wilbur Soot. He remembers looking at the man… he remembers looking at the man while—

“I remember the smell of burnt toast.”

Wilbur nods his head, ducking down to the book and starting to write, he speaks, “I never did catch your name, I guess I should get that for this book; so what exactly—”  
  
  
“Schlatt?”

Wilbur knows that name.

Schlatt turns to Quackity, the man entering the community house in a new suit. An old candidate for new power, he sighs, “The fuck you want?”

“The fuck  _ YOU  _ doing with Wilbur? He’s fucking crazy, the hell. Get over here.”

Schlatt rolls his eyes, “Cya Wilbur, maybe another time. Don’t worry your pretty head over me too much.”

Wilbur knows that name. He knew of that name, he’s told. He’s told of a dictator, he’s told of an evil man. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knows it to be true. In some sense, it’s always been true, yet the interaction, the nicknames, the manner, it tells him something he’s not yet to remember. A memory rises from the depths of his mind, the memory of a small little house underwater; the split cottage, two rooms, one for him—and one for… once for a blue dressed ram. He looks to the door; watching Schlatt leave the room, ducking to get his horns through the door.

Wilbur laughs, empty and short. 

He writes a name at the top of the paper. 

* * *

**_What Schlatt Remembers_ **

\- A Live SMP

\- A Shed

\- A Coin

\- Scamming people

\- Golden Apples

\- Playing God

\- ̶B̶i̶g̶ ̶Q̶ Quackity helping him

\- Karl

\- A Pole

\- Musician e-boy and challenges they played

\- The smell of burnt toast 

  
_ Cont ? _

**Author's Note:**

> leave a comment mayhaps and a kudos while you're there and ALSO man schlattbur /p am i right guys


End file.
